Grow something, my friend. Even if it is a potted tomato plant, it will make a difference to your life. A bowl of tomatoes is on the table...
Grow something, my friend. Even if it is a potted tomato plant, it will make a difference to your life.
A bowl of tomatoes is on the table before me. It’s two o’clock, and the afternoon sun slants through the west window, falling on the tomatoes and giving them a certain resplendence. They glow. They glow like – well, like tomatoes in the sun.
At one time, these blood-red “love apples” were considered poisonous, until a brave man came along and consumed a basket of them in public. Now we add tomatoes to all our dishes. Eating would be a dull business without a tomato to flavour the curry or the roast or the soup.
But this essay is not about eating. I have gone through life eating what is put in front of me, without fuss or favour. My grandmother saw to that. Eat your porridge, or go hungry. This was emphasised when I was at boarding school. Rhubarb as a sweet dish, every day all summer.
This was because our headmaster grew rhubarb in his back garden, and decided to inflict it on us. He probably charged extra for it, too. (Cynicism comes early at a boarding school.) And when I was...
